Therapy Sessions with the Detective
by Katana Geist
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was charged with the ultimate challenge; a patient. He was told to open the young woman in question up, and open her up he would. Sherlock enjoyed puzzles, but would this one prove to be his downfall?
1. Chapter 1

**PART I**

 **Chapter 1 - The Detective**

Everyone who knew Sherlock thought he was crazy. Granted, he already was, but agreeing to be a 'therapist' of sorts for some random girl was insane, especially for someone as antisocial as he was. His brother had practically blackmailed Sherlock in order to get him to allow the strange arrangement, which had been vastly ineffective. The only reason the consulting detective had accepted the 'case' was because he was curious as to who this mysterious girl was.

According to Mycroft, his 'client', or, rather, ' _patient_ ', was a female of approximately 20 years who worked as an analyst for the government, (a.k.a. Mycroft). Her sister was an immediate co-worker of Mycroft's, and she had asked a favour of the older Holmes.

You see, while Sherlock's 'patient' was practically normal in most ways, she hadn't spoken a word in about ten years. She wore socially acceptable clothes, according to Mycroft, anyway, and she showed up to work at the exact same time every day. She never took any holidays or sick days, and she never performed poorly while on the job. She was an expert at her profession, and the only reason she wasn't the head of the department was because she couldn't recruit new workers or conduct interviews with potential employees.

This was the basis of what Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and self-proclaimed High-Functioning Sociopath, knew about his first-ever patient. He was anticipating meeting the young woman, learning everything about her, spewing off the facts, and scaring her off so she wouldn't ever come back.

Yes, he had been willing to meet the girl, but he never promised Mycroft anything about continuing the 'therapy sessions'. No, it was in his best intent to get rid of this nuisance as soon as he had figured her out.

The only problem he could think of was the language barrier. If she truly wouldn't talk, he would have to work harder to figure her out. Not that he wasn't up for the challenge. He was bored that day anyway.

* * *

It was exactly five minutes before 1 p.m. when Sherlock heard a knock, just one, at the door. He had been sitting in his chair by the fireplace with his fingertips pressed together, forefingers barely touching his lips. His eyes opened as he snapped out of his Mind Palace, and from below, he overheard Mrs. Hudson trying to have a conversation with his patient.

Her footsteps were medium weight upon the stairs, meaning she was neither timid nor overly extroverted, merely confident within her own body. That was good. Very healthy. At least, that's what Sherlock guessed. He didn't really have any clue what he was doing, pretending to be therapist. I mean, honestly. A man with hardly any empathy at all was told to try and open this young woman up.

"Sherlock, you've got a client." Mrs. Hudson called as she led the girl up to the sitting room of Sherlock and John's flat.

"She's a patient, Mrs. Hudson, according to Mycroft." Sherlock replied just as Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room. The guest, a young woman who looked more like 23 or 24 years old, glanced about the cluttered dwelling place as she crossed the threshold.

Dull red hair, almost auburn but not quite, hung in loose curls down to the middle of her back. Parted crookedly on the left side of her head, from Sherlock's point of view, her hair was obviously not as important to her as most female humans her age. A beauty mark, clearly natural, rested high on her cheekbone, which lacked makeup of any kind, as well as her eyes. There was a residue of something on her lips, probably a lip balm of some sort. Not coloured. She wasn't one for impressions, then.

She wore a dark green jumper, slightly too large for her, so that she could pull the sleeves over her hands comfortably. No jewelry, not even earrings, though she had places for them in her ears. Black skinny jeans with gold threading were loose around her legs, meaning she either was really skinny or she didn't like the skin-tight feeling of smaller sizes. Sherlock determined it was the latter.

Black Converse trainers topped off the look, along with a black leather purse that contained the following; mobile phone, lip balm, a set of keys (house), a plastic ID card on a lanyard (work), a cheque book, a small change purse (empty), a money clip (at least five, no more than ten, pounds), and a few other plastic cards (identification, debit, credit, gift, membership, etc.).

"Have a seat, Miss…" In all honesty, Sherlock had absolutely no idea as to what this young woman's name was. He guessed it was something ordinary, like Jane Edwards, or another generic name of some sort. He didn't really care. He wasn't planning on spending too much time with her.

The young woman in the doorway smiled in thanks to Mrs. Hudson before entering the room further than the threshold.

Nails neatly trimmed, clean, but not manicured. Small paper cut giving her trouble on the inside of her left pinkie finger ½ centimetre in length. Redness and minor swelling in the area. Miniscule, hardly noticeable shift in her step, most likely due to a previous leg injury, somewhere below her right knee cap, about 5+ years old.

Almost unsure of herself, she hesitated before lowering herself to sit on the hard wooden chair between Sherlock and John's seats. He was sure his calculating gaze was making her uncomfortable, but Sherlock didn't lesson his stare in any way. He needed to get everything on her so that his later spew of discovery would impress and terrify the woman, to a point where she would flee in fright and never return, hopefully shivering whenever she recalled the exchange in her later years.

When Sherlock's examination reached her dark green eyes, he blinked. To his surprise, and he _didn't_ get surprised, the young woman was inspecting him just as intensely as he was.

Her jade gaze was currently travelling up his left forearm, which was the closest to her. A small tug at her lips eventually formed into a smirk. Curious as to what caused such a reaction, Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question. She just smiled knowingly at his silent query.

"So, how long have you been decidedly mute, Miss?" Sherlock began, hoping she might open up at least a little bit during the 'session'. It was a long shot, he knew. Objects in motion tend to stay in motion. If she had really been silent for the past ten years, even at home when she was alone, the chances of her talking now were slim to none. Sherlock knew that. He wasn't stupid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - The Mute**

Of course, the young woman didn't reply to the detective's nearly rhetorical question. Why would she? Objects in motion tended to stay in motion, so why would she change her ways now and talk for the first time in years? Even if it was for the stunning male specimen that sat in a black leather chair to her northern right.

As soon as she entered the sitting room, she began her taciturn review of its inhabitant. There were gunshots in the wall; _impulsive_. Stacks of papers and books strewn everywhere, on the shelf and otherwise; _intellectual_. Random pictures of bloody crime scenes scattered upon the table that housed two work spaces; _indifferent._ Possible flatmate?

Redirecting her attention to the other human in the room, she sat in the wooden chair set facing the empty fireplace. This Sherlock fellow wore a nice black suit with a white dress shirt underneath, no tie, and had incredibly unruly curls that looked black in some lighting and dark brown in others.

Clean-shaven, he was altogether not so bad on the eyes. His eyes, though, were what really struck her. Some sort of iris abnormality. If she had to guess, it was heterochromia iridum. Like his hair, his eyes switched colours in the different lights, alternating between green and blue. It was very striking and actually quite intriguing, but that wasn't why she was stuck on his gaze.

It wasn't emotionless, by any means. His eyes held something genuine - curiosity. He had regard for his decisions, no matter how little, and he certainly had regret. She could see it plain as day in his colour-changing eyes. He regretted more than anyone else she had ever met, but she didn't know _what_ he regretted.

Before now, she had planned on looking like a total ditz and a waste of time for the great consulting detective so that she wouldn't be forced by her sister and Mike to attend any more of these worthless sessions, but now she saw the raw emotion hidden so well behind cold indifference, and she couldn't resist. She had to stay. She had to keep coming. She had to break him.

She was going to tear down the walls of the infamous, antisocial detective with regret.

"Was there some sort of traumatic experience in your childhood that led to your silence? Physical, sexual, or emotional abuse that you can remember? That's what the usual, mundane psychologists think. I'm sure you would prefer one of them." Sherlock was trying to gather reactions, which was in turn valuable information, before he came out and was all rude and told her all her flaws and recited her entire life's story.

As of that moment, he hardly knew anything about her, and that in itself was enough to drive him mad. He liked puzzles, but he hated it when he couldn't solve them. There had to be a logical explanation, he knew this, but this patient of his was proving more difficult than he had anticipated.

The woman gave Sherlock a look for his question, one he understood to mean something along the lines of 'are you kidding me?' or 'are you serious?'. Pressing his lips together, Sherlock cast a glare at the woman. He wasn't enjoying the game they were playing by any means.

"Psychologists tend to rely on forgotten or non-existent memories of trauma during the fragile state of childhood. Perhaps you would rather we discussed the weather, then?" This only received a blank stare. After a moment, her gaze shifted to the mantle above the fireplace, where Sherlock's skull was kept.

Her expressions were indifferent as she inspected the mirror and papers with a knife stabbed through them. Sherlock tried to gauge her emotions, but he came up dry. He rarely, _rarely_ , _extremely rarely_ , was ever stumped like he was now.

She had seemed so easy when she first entered his domain, so simple, so _basic_ \- but she had changed somewhere between then and now. There was nothing to be read from her, and at that point, Sherlock was almost certain she had done this on purpose. He was almost certain she had been keeping up a cover just to throw him off. He was _almost_ certain, and that's what killed him.

"Are you interested in anatomy?" He questioned suddenly, once he had noticed how her gaze stayed on his skull. She shook her head no, giving him her first real answer of the day.

"Just interested in the skull, then." He tried again. She gave him another look, then shook her head no, practically disappointed. Apparently, Sherlock's best attempts at small talk weren't good enough for the mute woman.

"I heard you analyze reports for the government, is that correct?" Sherlock continued, even though he knew for a fact that he was correct. Mycroft had specifically told him as such the day he threatened to tell their mother about Sherlock's drug habits if he didn't take the case.

To his absolute horror, the young woman shook her head no for the third time. She looked at him like he was insane, as if she had expected him to know all this about her already.

Exhausted by his failed attempts, Sherlock decided enough was enough.

"How about I tell you everything I do know about you?" He paused, but didn't wait for her to respond.

"I know you work with a group of disappointing idiots who make you question why you socialize in the first place. I know you hate clutter and your house is immaculate, going by the way you are dressed and the exceptional organization of your handbag." She glanced down to her feet, where her leather bag sat innocently.

"You had an injury a few years ago, and your leg never fully recovered. It lets you know when it's about to rain, doesn't it? It's a strange injury, probably from jumping off something with too much force and too little care about your footing. You keep yourself up in appearances even though you couldn't care less about what society thinks about you, which is why you don't wear makeup and your hair isn't styled professionally and you don't wear jewelry very often.

You don't have any animals, you live by yourself, you dress comfortably, yet tactfully, for work, as you spend most of your time sitting in a chair. You are left-handed, and you have an ink splotch on the wrist of your jumper, meaning you favour writing in ink instead of on a computer. While you wear clothes a little too big, you look classy while doing it, so no one hardly notices. Hair has never been your strong suit, which is why you carelessly brush it out once a day, in the morning, and part it with your fingers.

There's a sister who disapproves of you, even though she helped you get your job. She keeps pushing you to talk and socialize and meet someone, a little too anxious for nieces and nephews for her own good. You continue to refuse to meet someone, and you secretly think she thinks you are asexual, even though you aren't, you are attracted to males, and there is a smudge on the inside of your wrist where you allowed the cute boy on the train to write his number, but you weren't interested in him so you've cleaned it up a bit, but obviously not too much, which indicates you are seen as rather attractive to the general population and you get given numbers quite often. After getting so many numbers on the train, I would only assume you would tire of washing the ink off, so you just smudge it enough to look like an accident. Unfortunately, this causes others to be completely oblivious to the fact you are well sought after.

But, all in all, you are somewhat interested. This latest one is less smudged, which means there was something different with this one. Deaf, perhaps? Noticed your silence and tried to communicate in sign language? Yes, that seems fitting. The mute and the deaf. Perfect pairing, which is why you kept his number somewhat clear." Sherlock paused again, glancing over her body one last time to ensure he hadn't missed anything.

"How was that?" He met her eyes, and was shocked to see her amused smile.

She was amused by him. Amused by his antics. Amused by his degrading and disassembling of her personality. Amused?! It was unheard of!

The young woman glanced up at the clock on the wall just as it chimed 2 p.m., smiling wider at this. A whole hour had passed in their little session, and she was quite pleased to have rattled the infamous Sherlock Holmes a few times during the duration.

Rising from her seat, she smirked down at the Detective while slipping her handbag's strap over her shoulder. Giving him a slight nod, she turned and deserted the room, leaving Sherlock confused by her reaction. So far, she was nothing like he had thought she would be. She wasn't dumb for being dumb. That was a feat in it's own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - The Prostitute**

The next week, the woman knocked once at the door at precisely five minutes before one, just as she had the Tuesday before. The weather was a bit more dismal, it was drizzling, so this time, she had worn a coat and had an umbrella.

As she was ascending the stairs, Sherlock noticed she wore heels. Particularly, stilettos. This went against his antecedent impression of her.

Mrs. Hudson had sent her up without an escort this time, so the young woman entered the flat alone.

As she stepped into the sitting room, Sherlock frowned. Everything, it seemed, had changed over the course of one week. She came in smelling of cheap perfume and hairspray. Her nails were coloured red, chipped at a few places, and there were a few random rings accenting her fingers.

Her hair was, thankfully, the same colour as before, but her skin looked darker, and there was no beauty mark to speak of. A light dusting of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose, loosely covered up by makeup. Her eyes were outlined in heavy black pencil, with light blue and gray eyeshadow on her eyelids.

Lips painted red, cheeks covered in rouge, eyebrows darkened two or three shades, she had done a flip-flop from herself the previous session. Her hair was poufy and curled to perfection, held in place with the hairspray, teased to an extreme.

Flashy faux diamond earrings dangled from her ears casually, tangling with her bouffant hair. Hidden behind her hair, there was a bruise from the night previous, no doubt from a lover, which she wasn't too proud of, which is why she had tried, and failed, to conceal it with both hair and makeup.

She wore a tube top, hot pink, vegan leather, underneath a silver faux fur jacket. A few necklaces lined her neck, mostly bold and gaudy, and the same could be said for her wrists.

Black net tights beneath a leather skirt, hot pink, with a pretend gold belt tied loosely around her hips. Pink stilettos with gold detailing and a matching round purse with a gold chain for it's strap. Contained within the handbag were the following; mobile phone (of a different shape, size, age, and brand as last week), same cheap lipstick that she wore, different set of house keys, plastic ID card for work on a pink bracelet, loose change mingling about, large wads of notes held together by hairpins, small vials of vodka and whiskey, off-brand mascara, and a container of morning after pills.

Overall conclusion; _prostitute with sticky fingers._

"So, back again, are we?" Sherlock remarked absentmindedly from his place at the desk. He had been researching the effects of Black Nightshade and Jimsonweed on the human body, when combined in an elixir made up of lavender seed oil and coffee, obviously.

The young woman merely smiled fakely at his words, easily sitting down on the sofa to the right of the door. There was a moment when she glanced at Sherlock's lips, quite obviously, and then Sherlock knew he wasn't working with an amateur.

This girl was good. _Wicked_ good. And she was all his to figure out.

Sherlock decided that perhaps their little sessions wouldn't be so bad after all. Here she was, fitting perfectly into the role of a seductress, and there he was, ready to play the long game. He smiled.

She cocked an eyebrow, wondering what he was so happy about, but he simply returned to his computer.

"How were the streets last night? Must have got your money's worth. I see you had at least five, maybe six, clients." Sherlock deduced, eyeing her amused expression.

"Still refusing to talk, then?" He continued, almost disappointed she was so stubborn. Not that he minded; as long as she kept this up, she would provide a reliable distraction for him on a weekly basis. At least he wouldn't be bored out of his Mind for an hour each Tuesday.

The young woman nodded with a smile on her painted lips, pleased with herself for doing her job so well. Sherlock sighed, glancing over her body once more. She did the same for him, even more amused than before when she noticed the topic of his research.

Slightly aggravated that he was such a thing of humour for his patient, Sherlock cast her a strong glare and returned to his work.

After a long silence of three minutes and 13.4 seconds, Sherlock broke the ice once more. He was still curious about this girl, after all, and he was still being paid and 'blackmailed' by Mycroft to be this young woman's 'therapist'.

"What's your name, then? I failed to catch it when Mycroft was over." Sherlock paused, and she simply rolled her eyes.

"Ah, right, not talking. Well, would you like some tea?" Sherlock rose from his chair and met the girl's gaze, which was brown that day. She shook her head no, and he was proud he had gotten a reaction, no matter how small, out of his taciturn patient.

Shrugging his shoulders at her denial, he entered the small kitchen that opened off the sitting room. Bustling about as he uncharacteristically made himself a cuppa, he heard her soft footsteps, they were softer today, as she joined him in the cramped and cluttered space.

"Do you like science? I've recently been conducting an experiment, well, several experiments, but anyways… The one I'm speaking of involves a human pancreas, a microwave, and bath salts…" Sherlock went on to explain his experiment in great depth, ignoring her vacant expression as he used her as he often used his skull. John never listened, but when one wouldn't talk, it was easy to spew knowledge uninterrupted.

He thought he caught her looking interested twice, but then when he examined her more closely, the sharp curiosity was gone. He concluded he was just seeing things by the time the clock struck two.

At this point, the young woman stretched in her seat at the kitchen table and yawned silently. She wiggled her fingers at Sherlock in a flirtatious goodbye before exiting off the kitchen and stepping down the stairs. She slowly pulled her raincoat over her faux fur jacket, zipping it up at an aggravating tortoise's pace. Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson's farewell as the mysterious young woman grabbed her umbrella and opened the front door, no doubt waving to the old woman in an opposite manner than she had to Sherlock.

Once she was gone, Sherlock was left to wonder how she did it. How she managed to fool him. She had made the most convincing prostitute. Most convincing, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - The Artist**

She was late. Sherlock's patient hadn't been late either of the two sessions previously, in fact, she had been early. This annoyed the detective to no end, and just as he was contemplating phoning his brother, he heard two raps at the door.

A flurry of sound met Sherlock's ears after the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson began comforting the girl. She must have fallen. Judging by the placement of the incident, she had tripped over the threshold and flailed her arms around, reaching for the table with the glass vase on it to support herself, but she had only succeeded in breaking the vase and falling in a puddle of flowers and broken rubbish.

Her clumsy steps were heavy on the hollow stairs, resounding about the halls at an annoyingly high decibel. She seemed to have a hard time of it, even though she had already been here twice. Painstakingly slow and aggravatingly disrespectful towards time. _Alcoholic? No. Just Clumsy._

Reaching the landing, the familiar young woman who had been the puzzle of Sherlock's for the last two weeks came into his flat looking completely unfamiliar.

Light blonde hair complimented her complexion, somewhat more tanned than before, and neither appeared to be fake. Watery blue eyes and light purple makeup, matching her tye-dye T-shirt that also involved green in the chaotic mess of colour.

Pastel blue jacket, faux leather, over faded and ripped dungarees. Splotches of paint marked up the pant legs of the denim bottoms, mostly natural tones. Yellow wellies were old and muddy, and held home to quite a few holes. Horn-rimmed glasses encircled her eyes,one of the arms broken and having only a slurry of adhesives to hold it together.

 _Poor. Fashion-wary. Shy. Two cats, from a shelter. Painter._

Therefore, she was a starving artist who animal- and child-sat for her neighbours to pay the bills. Simple enough, rather boring, actually, and not worth his time or attention.

That is, obviously, if he hadn't known her other aliases. It was curious, her going from a perfectly prim professional at _something_ , he still hadn't figured that out, to a woman of the night, and then on to this, an artist with an unsteady income.

"Trouble with the door?" He questioned nonchalantly from his chair by the fireplace. The girl's face flushed red and she swallowed uncomfortably.

Sherlock smirked at her reaction. She really was a great actress.

Unless she had multiple-personality disorder.

Sherlock frowned. He hadn't thought of that. Why hadn't he thought of that?

The woman stepped forward and dropped roughly into the wooden chair, clutching her arms around her body as if to protect herself from the other presence in the room. She glanced about anxiously, obviously suppressing the urge to bite her fingernails.

"I read that board games are helpful at forming bonds, whatever good that does, so we're going to play chess. I assume I don't have to teach you…?" Sherlock eyed the female as she bit her lip nervously and shrugged.

"Pull your chair over here, then." Sherlock bolted out of his comfy chair and positioned himself in the middle of the sofa, carefully realigning the chess board's position on the coffee table while the young woman dragged her wooden chair over to the coffee table. Once situated, Sherlock took the liberty of going first.

"Having expensive taste must be difficult for an artist who can't sell her paintings." Sherlock reflected, observing the female's absentminded nod as she moved her chess piece. He smiled, triumphant.

 _Fifteen minutes later -_

"Why are you… Wow, do you even know how to play chess?!" Sherlock was growing increasingly aggravated by the woman's antics. She merely smirked deviously and leveled her gaze.

The detective was easy to crack when it came down to it. The woman had been observing him for three weeks now, and she already knew how she could break the genius. Now the question was if she would actually go through with it or not.

Sherlock moved his colour and then the woman was back to messing up chess. She might've giggled if she wasn't mute. The detective was getting stressed by their harmless game of chess. He kept running his fingers through his hair and messing up his curls even further, and the woman found this beyond amusing.

"You do realise that's going to - are you sure you want to go there? But you really shouldn't - fine. Ignore me. I'm not the mute here, you are! You should be listening to me, unless you are deaf as well as mute!" Sherlock hollered at the woman's motion. She couldn't help but grin at his hopelessness.

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs just then.

"Sherlock! Don't yell at this poor woman!" Mrs. Hudson reprimanded the man while he scowled.

"I _have_ to, Mrs. Hudson! She's winning with the most common moves imaginable! That's - That's just not possible!" Sherlock pulled at his hair stared incredulous at the playing board in front of him.

"Oh, Sherlock…" Mrs. Hudson made the shooing motion with her hand while returning to her flat on the level below. Sherlock frowned and stared at the chess board, completely disregarding Mrs. Hudson. The woman figured he had already forgot Mrs. Hudson had come upstairs, so intent as he was upon figuring out his opponent's strategy.

A few more minutes passed in silence, until the young woman slid her final piece, a knight, into position. She motioned to the board and gave Sherlock a look.

He stared furiously at the board.

"No. There's no way - You can't have put my king in checkmate!" The woman smiled while Sherlock went into denial, muttering to himself as he looked over the board.

A grey-haired man bounded up the steps and halted in the doorway. After a quick glance, the woman knew this was the man Sherlock worked with so often, and made the news with so often; Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, working at the Scotland Yard.

He looked frantic.

"Sherlock," Lestrade didn't even get a chance to finish his sentence before Sherlock interrupted him.

"It was the wife, George. It's always the wife." Sherlock finished scowling at the chess board and upended it at that moment while he stood, sending pawns and rooks and bishops all over the flat. The woman sitting unperturbed in her wooden chair smirked at the man's frustration, slowly rising to her feet and replacing her chair to the exact spot she found it in.

Greg left quickly, sensing Sherlock's sour mood.

"You! Tell Mycroft and whoever else it is you talk to that you stayed the whole time!" Sherlock ordered, spinning away from the window just long enough to glare at the female and point his index finger at her. She nodded nervously, back to her former alias. He rolled his eyes at her and picked up his violin and bow.

The woman tripped over her feet as she gathered her blue jacket from the back of the chair (she had removed it during their heated game of chess).

"Do try to come on time next week." Sherlock tossed over his shoulder as he placed his violin on his shoulder. He smirked when he practically heard her flushing scarlet.

The artist stumbled down the stairs and out the door, and that was the last Sherlock heard of her before he began playing his violin. Her retreating figure glanced behind her shoulder as she was turning the corner, giving Sherlock a half-wave before scurrying out of sight. Sherlock smiled.


End file.
